March 26th
Greg stands on the stage and looks out into the shadows. He wears a smirk, plenty of bravado and nothing else, but deep inside he's shaking. He is one hundred and sixty-seven minutes late for his session, and he knows he's in big trouble; though he'd never admit it, deep inside he's a sniveling wreck curled on the floor in fetal position.
"You've broken our agreement." M'lady's voice is cool and unemotional, but there is an undercurrent of annoyance he knows all too well—he's heard it from other people enough times in various situations over the years.
"Would you believe a terrorist splinter group hijacked my cane?" Dead silence. He takes a deep breath. "Splinter, cane—get it?" Crickets chirping. "Okay, didn't think so. I-I had to work late," he says quietly, and with great reluctance. This brings back bad memories, when he stood before his father, tried to explain and knew whatever he said wouldn't make a difference. "Ended up staying all night and overslept." His leg still aches, even after a power nap in the recliner and two extra ibuprofen, and he is exhausted.
"I see." There is no discernable change in her voice. "Turn around, please."
He is not fastened to the cross this time, though she does blindfold him. Instead he is taken into another room. She guides him with care down a carpeted corridor, moves with him as he limps hard, and supports him with that easy strength he always finds such a surprise. When they reach the room he can tell it's good-sized by the slightly cooler ambient air temperature. To his surprise M'lady removes the blindfold. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the soft lamp-light.
They stand in a bedroom, but not the one she took him to on his first visit. Before him is a beautiful four-poster canopy bed, hung with crochet-lace curtains, their original white faded to a soft ivory with age; it's made up with what appear to be real linen sheets and a thick quilt pieced in varying shades of blue velvet and silk fabrics. Soft pillows are piled everywhere. There's a magnificent old maple-wood chest of drawers nearby, filled with accoutrements no doubt, and a stand-alone tray with several floggers and straps lined up in a neat row beside a cut-crystal water carafe and two glasses. The wide-plank floor is covered with a faded but beautiful Aubusson silk carpet. The ambience is not fussy or frilly, just quietly feminine with an intriguing element of kink, much like the woman who stands next to him.
"This place is ours and no one else's," M'lady says. He glances at her in surprise before he lowers his gaze. She laughs softly.
"You look so good in blue. It's your color," she says, and leads him to the bed. He half-expects to be bound to a post, but she pats the mattress and says "On your back."
"Do I have to?" he says, not quite a whine but not a statement either. M'lady raises a brow. "Uh, m'lady," he adds, though he makes it clear he still considers her insistence on the title pointless. She says nothing, just waits for him to comply. He eases onto the bed, feeling awkward and more than a little ridiculous, and watches as she stretches out his arms and legs and ties them to the posts with soft white silk cords. She takes particular care to make sure his bad leg is propped to keep his thigh loose and relaxed. He is not pulled taut; in fact he's quite comfortable, but maybe he knows now how a chicken might feel when it's trussed for the process line—not a particularly pleasant image to have in his head at the moment, nor a logical one. M'lady sits next to him. She puts her hand on his shoulder, light and gentle. "Please tell me more about what happened to make you late."
"Nothing to tell, m'lady," he mutters.
"So it was a lie?" She tilts her head a bit. "Usually you're not quite so obvious. Lying about lying is overkill in this situation. The truth would serve you better."
He looks away. Eventually the words emerge. "Patient tanked, had to go in for surgery. Pathology came in twelve hours later. No point in going home, so I slept in the office on the lounger." Greg doesn't mention the bottle of Booker's in his desk drawer, a little something he keeps to add to his coffee or drink by the shot when the ibuprofen doesn't cover even a tenth of his pain. Still, he has the feeling she knows about it anyway, and won't come down on him for it. The thought is reassuring, so he pushes it away as a fantasy too dangerous for indulgence.
"You work hard to help your patients find healing," she says. "I understand now." She leans down and kisses him, a lingering salute that makes him want her more than ever; he's thought about her all week, disturbing, erotic little daydreams that pull him away from his puzzles and help him get through his day, though not without a certain frustration to accompany those mental movies.
When the kiss ends she takes his penis in hand and removes the silver ring, sets it aside. "You wore it," she says.
"Yes, m'lady," he says, his eyes on her hand. There is something so terrifying and yet delicious in the knowledge he can't stop her touch unless he uses the safe word. A frisson of relief flits through his mind, but it's gone before he can capture it.
"All week?" She works him with a light touch as her fingers trail over his shaft.
"Yes—ahhh . . ." He arches his back as she tickles the sweet spot under the glans.
"Well done, my handsome man," she says, and laughs when he finally gets the chance to roll his eyes and glare at her. "You don't agree?"
"I'm not handsome," he growls, and quickly adds "m'lady" when she raises an eyebrow.
"But I say you are." Under the stern tone is a little bubble of something he can't quite define. That combination makes him uneasy, and yet another small, hidden part of him looks forward eagerly to what she's going to say. "Let me show you." She lies down next to him and turns his face to hers. With reluctance he looks into her eyes; they are a softly luminous grey, with a few tiny dots of gold scattered in the iris, like stars. He sees no pity or sympathy, only understanding and something that he thinks might be pride—pride in him, he realizes with an almighty shock.
"You have honest eyes," she says. "They tell me that you are a bright and noble spirit, whether you believe it or not." She leans in and gently presses her lips to his temple. The tenderness in the action surprises him into silence. "You have a marvelous face. It's lived-in and so expressive. I could watch you for hours. You have a delicious mouth," she proves it by giving him a kiss that puts all her previous efforts to shame. "That bottom lip tempts me to all sorts of rash actions because I know you're a sensualist, a sybarite. I knew it the moment I looked at you. It saddens me that such a profound appreciation for the beauties of life is hidden behind an equally profound fear. We'll have a lot of fun exploring those secret qualities," her lips brush his as she speaks, her breath warm on his skin. Her hands come to rest on his chest. "You have the most wonderful architecture."
He can't help it, he has to question her. "'Architecture.'"
She taps his chest. "My lady," she insists, and chuckles when he just grunts. He catches his breath at the way her face softens into real beauty when she laughs. "Lovely strong shoulders, narrow hips, long legs and arms, musician's hands . . . they don't make them any nicer." She trails her fingers over his flank, up his good thigh and gently pinches his ass. "The rest of you is quite delightful as well." He doesn't know what to say to this assessment, so he stays silent. "You don't believe me, do you?" She sighs and gives him a look of disapproval, though her eyes gleam with humor. "I'll have to discipline you for that, you know. And for being late. An agreement is an agreement."
His amusement grows cold, swallowed by dread. Her amusement fades, replaced by quiet compassion. "My beautiful man," she says softly, "I hope someday you'll welcome what I do without fear."
She uses the flogger with the soft doeskin thongs on him first, tickles and teases him with it, gives him little nibbles and kisses as she works her way over his chest and shoulders to his belly. The next toy is a bit more serious—another flogger, this one with thicker, tougher strips of leather. It stings a little, but not enough to make him tense up. When she unties him and puts him on his belly however, he feels his fear begin to rise. His limbs are bound spread apart once more, with the same attention given to his right leg. He turns his head in time to see m'lady take a leather strap from the tray. It is thick and supple, just like a belt. Dread clenches deep inside and turns into outright fear. He knows all too well what it will feel like against his skin, the sharp crack and the lightning-strike pain, white-hot, inescapable.
M'lady puts the strap on the bed next to him and removes her clothing. He is momentarily distracted by the sight of her as she unhooks her bra and steps out of her panties. She has a solid, curvy body with good hips, her breasts like two pale moons, full and round. Her thick fair hair falls to her shoulders, soft as a cloud. When she is naked she picks up the strap and sits next to him. "Someone used something like this on you, and not in a good way," she says. "Tell me more."
He is silent as he remembers the times when he'd get ten hard hits just because, when Dad would use the buckle end as a special torment for really big offenses, when any movement or look would be interpreted as rebellious and result in an immediate doubling of the penalty. "There's no point in going over what happened," he says at last.
"There's every point." She touches him, her small hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle. "Please tell me."
"Dad was the authority in our house," he says after a long silence. "He was career military . . . he was . . . he was the authority, no breaking or bending of rules, ever. Everything was black and white, truth or lie, no in between, no explanations, no—no excuses. He . . . liked to hurt people. He-he liked to hurt . . . hurt me." By the time he is done he has trouble breathing; his panic fights to escape, a living entity. M'lady strokes his upper back, slow and steady. Gradually his fear recedes.
"Listen to me," she says after a time. "This is not an instrument of punishment. It will never strike you in anger or contempt or hatred. It will never harm you or make bruises or leave bloody welts. It won't do any of those things because I won't ever do any of those things. You have my promise." She puts a hand on his shoulder, then stands. Despite her fine words he knows what's coming and turns his face away. When the strap swats his ass it's barely more than a brush of leather but he jumps all the same as his bound hands twist and pull at the cords.
"No," he begs, terrified beyond reason. "Please—" The second smack is worse. He starts to struggle in earnest to free himself and freezes when m'lady's hand cups his left cheek, caresses it gently.
"No bruises," she says softly. "No bloody welts. No pain. Feel me touching you. Does it hurt?"
He goes still as his breath moves in and out in ragged gasps. Slowly he realizes she is right. "No . . . no." But it will, he thinks, and swallows on a throat gone dry with terror. It will.
"Remember the safe word? What is it?"
". . . baker, m'lady."
"Very good. Use the safe word and this stops immediately."
She works his thighs and calves, the strikes no more than gentle smacks, then returns to his ass and leaves him tingling, his erection pressed into the mattress. By the time she is finished with him he rises to meet each blow and whimpers as sensation thunders through his body, to temporarily drown out the pain from his thigh. Her hands massage his cheeks and he doesn't fight her, though he can't help but groan when her touch makes his sensitized skin come alive. The feeling goes straight to his penis, sends shivers down his spine. When she frees his limbs and has him roll onto his back, he battles the need to pull her on top of him. Instead he submits, bides his time as she carefully straddles him and brings his hands up to her breasts, holds them there with hers. "You're such a tit man," she says, as she smiles down at him. "It's amusing to watch you when we talk sometimes. You can't pry your gaze from breast level."
Greg rubs his callused thumbs over her nipples just to see her catch her breath. Her eyes close as he caresses her, hefts the rounded weights; his fingers massage her gently in the same way she worked his ass. But it's not enough; he can't hold out against temptation. Ever so slowly he eases her down and maneuvers her so she is beneath him, as he struggles to put as much of his weight as possible on his good leg. Missionary position is almost impossible for him, it requires two good thigh muscles to work and he's only got one, but he does the best he can because he wants her under him, begging for him to go faster, deeper: under his thumb, so to speak.
To his rather amazed satisfaction she doesn't protest; her hands slide around to grab his ass and hold on while he plunges into her. It's been forever since he's had a woman this way. His sex life consists mainly of blow jobs and hand jobs and the occasional chair fuck, always with him passive, waiting to be taken. This feels glorious, so much like his life before the surgery that he has to exult in it. And so of course at that very moment his ruined thigh decides to contract in a tight hard spasm. He gives a sharp groan as his rhythm stutters to a halt. He can't ignore the warning; if he does, he'll pay with at least a full week of immobility and immense pain.
"What—what is it?" She looks up at him. Concern takes over from passion. "What's wrong?"
"I can't," he snarls, and pulls out as he curses his damaged leg and the relentless tyranny it holds over every aspect of his life. He starts to roll away from her and is stopped when her hands take gentle hold of him.
"Wait . . . just wait." She eases him on his side while she sits up. "Here . . ."
By degrees she helps him settle into a half-reclining position, careful to keep his thigh from full lockdown with the addition pillows here and there. He endures what has to be done as he grits his teeth. "You have medication for this?" she says.
"Coat pocket," he says through clenched jaws, and watches as she clambers out of bed and pads to the door. A few moments later she returns with the bottle. She pours a glass of water from the carafe and hands both pills and glass to him.
"It would be a good idea to have your meds on hand during sessions from now on," she says once he's taken some ibuprofen. "If you're on a schedule, please tell me so I can adjust things accordingly." Greg shoots her a hard look, but she doesn't seem upset or put off, just matter of fact. Her casual acceptance eases his mental discomfort, but does nothing for his physical problem. She solves that too though, when she lies next to him, strokes his belly and chest, kisses him long and slow while they wait for the painkiller to take the edge off, and the spasm to relax. When her hand takes hold of his flaccid penis he tenses, not sure he can force the erection.
"Shhh . . ." She kisses him, lips soft and sweet. "Let me do the work. Relax, it's all right."
Soon enough she brings him back to life with her touch, sure, confident and tender. Bit by bit he rises. The ache in his loins is almost worse than the intense throb in his butchered quadriceps, but he still has the presence of mind to slide his fingers into the curls at the top of her thighs and find the little nub of her clitoris, wet with juices. He parts the thin folds of hot flesh and strokes her, swallows her moan in his mouth, as his tongue twines with hers. They take each other higher until pleasure washes through him as he finally reaches climax, with her not far behind.
When Greg comes back to reality he is cradled by a warm soft body. Every part of him is soaked in afterglow, something of a surprise given the interruption in proceedings; he's rarely felt this good after sex, because most of the time he hires hookers to get some release and a little furtive human closeness, not to experience a full-on orgasm. It's astonishing that he's sated after what amounts to little more than mutual masturbation, but he won't question it. He's used up and it's absolutely wonderful. Best of all, his thigh has responded to the meds and gentle handling, and subsided to a bearable ache.
"So," m'lady says at last, "not too bad being disciplined, wouldn't you agree?" She strokes his chest with a slow, tender gesture. He catches her hand in his; he wants to bring it to his lips but that seems too intimate, too trite.
"I'll have to be late more often," he says, and she laughs, sweet and soft.
"My lady," she says. He sighs.
"M'lady. Even if your real name is Dana Gardener."
She's surprised, but her answer isn't what he expects. "Both my names are real. It just depends on the context."
Later, when they share cups of coffee together on the terrace after a late breakfast, she gives him a small blue velvet bag. "I want you to wear this, but first you must tell me what it means."
He opens it and draws out the contents. It appears to be a bracelet made of fine dark leather, thin, narrow and supple, with a line of brushed-silver knotwork down the middle; substantial enough for him to feel against his skin, modest enough not to be noticed. He looks down at it for a few moments.
"Not all leather straps are bad," he says. M'lady tilts her head a bit.
"Very good," she says. "What else?"
He puts the bracelet on his right wrist and fastens the clasp. It feels like it was always meant to be there. "A reminder to be on time."
"Excellent." She gives him her cool, mysterious smile. There's more."
He takes a deep breath. This is the place where he either goes forward or stops and turns around. "I'm yours." The words sound strange; he's never said them to anyone before, not even Stacy. He's not even sure what they really mean, but he knows it's true nonetheless. And that he'll be driven to challenge them. M'lady nods.
"Within our sessions together, yes you are," she says softly. "I want you to remember that when you are tempted to take control the way you tried today."
Suddenly the tabletop holds a certain fascination for him. Greg stares at it and feels his face grow warm. With anyone else he'd administer the smack down of the century, but here, in this intimate space, somehow things are different. He doesn't want to destroy what has already become a haven from the apprehensions and pain of everyday life.
"You're a natural boundary-tester and I respect that," m'lady says. "But here in these rooms you are my subject." This time there is no humor or indulgence in her words or voice. Then her hand reaches out to touch his. "I know it'll happen again. I'd expect nothing less. I'm just reminding you that there will be consequences." She pauses. "How are you feeling? Your leg . . . ?"
"It's fine," he says, and turns his hand palm up, so that his fingers clasp hers. "I . . . I don't," he begins, and doesn't know what to say. "I can't . . ."
"My beautiful man," she says when he falls silent, "it'll be all right. You'll see."